Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 16:

The shot shattered the silence like glass under a boot.

For a moment, everything stopped — the priest froze mid-word, the guests stiffened in their seats — and then chaos erupted.

Screams tore through the air. Someone knocked over a candelabra. Chairs screeched, bodies surged. The gunman fired again as he vanished through a side door, and the crowd scattered like smoke.

Mary didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Because the second the first bullet flew, William was already in front of her — arms wrapping around her body, dragging her to the ground, covering her completely. His weight hit her like a wall, hard and unyielding, forcing the breath from her lungs.

They landed behind the altar, hidden from view, his body shielding hers like he was born to do it.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice ragged but close, mouth against her ear.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I think—”

And then she felt it.

Warm.

Wet.

Thick.

Soaking through the silk of her dress, creeping along her ribs, staining everything in its path.

She blinked down in confusion.

And that was when William stopped breathing.

“Will?” she asked, voice catching. “William—”

No response. His arms slackened.

Panic ignited behind her ribs. Her fingers scrambled over his back, searching for the wound she already knew was there. Her hands came away sticky, red.

His blood.

“No.” Her voice broke. “No, no, no, no—”

She was pinned beneath his body, her wedding dress drenched in his blood, the lace gone dark and heavy, the scent of iron sharp in her throat. Her heartbeat screamed through her ears. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t understand how quickly everything had unraveled.

Someone finally pulled her out from under him — strong hands, sharp orders, the world a blur of shouting and running. She saw his face one last time before they lifted her away.

Eyes closed. Skin pale. Still.

She didn’t even hear herself scream.

When she surfaced again, she was outside the chapel, seated on the marble steps with someone wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Blood was drying down her back. The hem of her dress dragged in crimson trails behind her like a veil of war.

Then she saw the priest.

Laid out flat, neck torn open by the bullet that had ended him instantly. His robes soaked. His eyes still open.

She turned away and threw up.

A moment later, a hand landed gently on her shoulder. She flinched — but it wasn’t a stranger.

Don Millefiore stood beside her, stoic, unreadable in his tailored black suit.

“We’ll take care of it,” he said quietly. “Whoever did this — they won’t leave this city breathing.”

Mary couldn’t answer, couldn't speak, couldn't think.

He called William her husband.

And it wasn’t until that word sank in that her body gave out completely. Her knees folded. Her vision tilted. The sound of the Don’s voice faded into a tunnel.

Mary collapsed, wrapped in a wedding dress that was no longer white.